


Avant Garde

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Hollowverse [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mystery, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Paris - Freeform, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Romance, Sex, Travel, puzzle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bored and desperate for distraction, Sherlock accepts an obscure case that takes him and John to Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, pay attention to the small details.

“Stamps.”

The word was leaden, Sherlock’s bored, polished baritone emphasizing the ‘m’ and the ‘p’, lips pursing and releasing in a way that might have distracted John under other circumstances.

The young man sat in the client’s chair nodded nervously, casting a quick glance at John as though for explanation or support, and the doctor could see the words “how did you know?” forming, but Sherlock – as usual – ploughed right into the explanation.

“Thin, pale,” the detective began, and John resisted pointing out that applied to Sherlock just as much, “don’t get out much and when you do, it’s only travel to go back indoors. The hunch to your shoulders suggests you spend a lot of time sitting and looking at something – something small, perhaps through a magnifying lens or a microscope. Could be both. Steady hands – very steady – an important trait for your… pastime. You work a lot with your hands, and one _might_ expect evidence of dryness or washing, but of course not, because you wouldn’t risk getting all those oils on something so valuable, so gloves. Cotton, though, given the state of your skin and the possibility of abrasive damage – even ever so slightly – from latex or nitrile.”

Sherlock paused for breath – _a rare feat_ , John thought, and he could see the astonishment on the younger man’s face, the rush of surprise and admiration lining up to be voiced.

“But your lips,” Sherlock continued, and John watched the stamp enthusiast deflate a bit as he was pre-emptively silenced. “Dry, cracked, used to being licked. You’re a _purist_ ,” Sherlock spoke the word as if he were holding it at arm’s length, “none of the self-adhesive variety for you. And that’s not where the interesting ones are anyway, are they? All the new ones are rubbish, so few flaws, no real _character_.

“You’re fastidious, but it doesn’t extend beyond the collecting… why waste your time? Friends all the same bent, no girlfriend, visit the family only on holidays or when pressed into it, job is good enough to support your interests without being too demanding or involve too much work with the public. Or with anyone. Something equally as finicky, numbers – accounting, most likely. Not for a large firm. Nothing that would require too much reporting of your time, as long as you get the job done, no one asks any questions or cares too much about your whereabouts. Quiet of course, but your other living habits… cluttered, at a guess – and not much of a guess – not much consideration for anything else, easier not to cook because it takes time and takeaway doesn’t. Workspace kept neat out of necessity, nothing else gets the same consideration. Don’t socialize much beyond your circle of fellow collectors, but aren’t bothered by noise around you – probably don’t notice. Excellent concentration skills, to the exclusion of all else.

“Oh, and your sister works in a flower shop somewhere near here.”

The younger man started, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“How did you know that?”

John couldn’t resist rolling his eyes, pursing his lips to contain a sigh.

“You mentioned it in your initial email,” Sherlock replied, waving a hand vaguely, projecting boredom, but John could see him congratulating himself internally on being so clever.

“But not the other stuff!” the young man protested.

“Elementary deduction, really,” Sherlock sniffed. “We’ll let you know.”

“But I haven’t even seen it!”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, blinking, nonplussed. “Yes. Of course. John?”

John pushed himself to his feet, shooting Sherlock a pointed look that was, as usual, completely ignored, and beckoned to the potential tenant to follow him downstairs. He showed the young man – whose name he hadn’t bothered to remember – dutifully around the flat. Given Sherlock’s assessment of their visitor, John wasn’t really surprised that there were no exclamations of delight at the space or the lighting.

“Is there a form I need to fill out?” the young man asked after the brief tour was complete. John gave his head a shake, putting on his best reassuring doctor’s expression.

“No,” he said, all false encouragement in his tone. “Sherlock’s brilliant at this sort of thing. Well, you’ve seen. We have a couple more people coming to look,” that was a familiar refrain, and a lie, “but we’ll let you know by the end of the day tomorrow.”

There was a thank you, an awkward handshake (which John always found annoying), and a rush of relief when he was able to close the front door behind the soon-to-be disappointed prospective tenant. He lingered near the door, half wondering if he was listening for the young man to walk away, half lulled by the sound of traffic from the street outside. Something in the atmosphere had lifted, and he hated that it felt like this every time he saw someone out, knowing full well that Sherlock had found a reason (or reasons) for denying them the ground floor flat.

It was relief, pure and simple, and John avoided thinking about what that meant, distracting himself by trying to work out what Sherlock would be up to on the floor above him. The sound of footsteps wasn’t a good enough indicator; Sherlock always threw himself into _something_ after a viewing, but it was never the same thing. As it deliberately avoiding a pattern of activity could stop reality from encroaching.

They needed to let the ground floor flat. They’d needed to let it for months. John knew that. He knew Sherlock knew that. They’d placed an advert, they’d interviewed a handful of people.

All of them rejected by the detective’s caustic insight.

And the flat still stood empty.

_No_ , John told himself. Not empty. Because it had never been properly cleared out. Oh, the furniture would stay with the flat, but there were still things there that were _hers_ , things neither he nor Sherlock were willing to give up.

As if that would make it finally real. Inescapable.

John closed the door to their flat, shutting out that contemplation, grateful for the familiar irritation of Sherlock tearing the living room apart in search of something.

“Sherlock–”

“Boring!” his partner snarled, flinging an angry glare John’s way, grey eyes glinting. “How can they stand it, John? To be so _bloody_ boring?”

“I bet he doesn’t think he is,” John sighed, folding his arms, playing the game willingly.

“ _Stamps_ ,” Sherlock spat, still-short curls bouncing as he shook his head once, vehemently. “Why? What’s the _point_?”

“You mean, what’s the point of being obsessed with something to the exclusion of everything else?” John asked.

“Precisely!” Sherlock snapped, flinging his arms wide, and John had to bite down on a pointed remark, knowing if Sherlock caught it in his expression, the detective would ignore it. His talent for self-deception was almost as great as his talent for the observation of others – and John didn’t _quite_ let himself follow that train of thought into what it might say about him.

“Stamps,” his partner muttered again, overturning a couch cushion and making a disgusted noise when whatever he thought he was looking for failed to materialize.

“I’ll just get them, shall I?” John sighed.

“I don’t _want_ a cigarette!” Sherlock snarled. John arched an eyebrow; that probably meant he did, but wasn’t willing to cop to it because John had suggested it. It was – the doctor had discovered – an effective way of keeping Sherlock off nicotine.

When it worked.

Which wasn’t always.

Reverse psychology was tricky with Sherlock, who was wont to recognize it being used against him at inconvenient moments.

“Tea, then?” John asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered without pausing in his apparently futile search. John considered asking what their flat had done to deserve such treatment, but he recognized Sherlock’s moods from long experience, and there was no humour in this one. He made tea without comment, earning only a glare for his efforts when Sherlock snatched the proffered mug from him.

He sank into his chair, watching as Sherlock redid the sofa enough to flop himself onto it, long legs sprawled in front of him, and somehow managing not to spill tea all over himself.

“ _Stamps_ ,” the detective muttered again, eyes casting away from John’s.

“At least he’d be quiet,” John pointed out, without any real conviction to his words.

“Hateful,” Sherlock said against the rim of his mug, and John allowed himself the moment of distraction watching full lips close over the porcelain. He wondered where Sherlock’s mood dropped him on his personal physical tolerance spectrum. John usually had a very good idea, but there were times – these times, after interviews – where he found it difficult to judge.

A good shag could be just what Sherlock needed to relieve some stress, or the suggestion of it could shut him down completely.

The lines of tensions that jutted against his partner’s neck answered the question for him. Sherlock probably wasn’t even aware of his own response, although he may have been aware of the line of thought behind John’s gaze.

John shelved it, watching Sherlock relax minutely. He wondered, passingly, if he should do up a catalogue of Sherlock’s reactions to him. Comparing it to the mental catalogue Sherlock kept of John’s responses might distract him.

For five minutes.

“Well, he was better than the last one,” John offered. Sherlock didn’t deign to answer, curling his lip and slumping further down, resting the tea cup precariously on the arm of the sofa. At John’s slight wince, the detective huffed an aggrieved sigh and snatch the mug up again, shooting John another glare.

The doctor pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room to sink down beside his partner, who stiffened and pulled back when John dipped his hand into the pocket of the blue silk dressing gown. Grey eyes flared a warning John had already read, and he held up Sherlock’s phone as reassurance before scanning through his email.

“Art theft?” he suggested, earning a pointed look in return. “Cheating spouse?” Sherlock huffed a sigh, managing to slump down even further, long toes pulling at the rug. “Missing dog?”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock muttered. “Does it glow in the dark?”

“Doesn’t say,” John replied, smiling slightly. “Insurance fraud?”

“Who does these people think I am?” Sherlock snapped.

“The man in the Sherlock Holmes hat,” John replied.

“Hasn’t there at least been a murder?” Sherlock demanded, snatching the phone from John, scrolling through the messages himself. “Liar, liar, adulterer, liar and adulterer, thief, delusional, making it up, hysterical, and another adulterer.”

“What is the world coming to?” John asked, unable to repress the small smile quirking on his lips despite the dark glower Sherlock threw his way.

“Peaceful and law abiding,” the detective snorted, pitching the phone onto the coffee table with a clatter that made John wince. “I can calculate angles and force accurately, John.”

“That’d be the third screen you shattered, right?”

“Your inability to observe never ceases to amaze me,” Sherlock said, and John kept a comment to himself about his skill at observing his partner’s moods. “The screen’s fine.”

“If you keep that up, it won’t be,” John sighed, pushing himself to his feet. Sherlock waved the empty tea mug at him.

“Words?” John suggested.

“Please, John, may I have another cup?” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

“Make it yourself, genius.”

“You’re going to the kitchen,” Sherlock pointed out.

“To put mine away. Why don’t you get yourself dressed? I could use a walk.”

“What _is_ your obsession with air?” Sherlock muttered, folding his arms, mug buried in the crook of his elbow.

“Breathing’s boring till you stop doing it,” John replied, leaning down to press a kiss against his partner’s forehead. Sherlock squirmed, but not enough to make John think he was serious.

“You don’t know that,” he pointed out.

“Nor do you,” John replied.

“Unwise to theorize without all the facts.”

“This isn’t an experiment either of us gets to undertake,” John said, putting a steely hint in his tone – he never really knew, not with Sherlock. “Are you coming, or are you going to sit there and sulk all day?”

Sherlock huffed, rolling onto his side, back to the room – and still holding his mug, John noted. He waited a moment, then leaned down, pressing another kiss against Sherlock’s warm skin. Grey eyes slitted open, flickering his way, muscles relaxing slightly under John’s lips.

“I won’t be long. An hour at most. I’ve got my phone if you want to track me and join me.”

Sherlock grunted, burying his face in a cushion, and John knew he’d be on his own today. Occasionally, the need for company won out over Sherlock’s strops, and the detective would catch him up in the park. John never commented on it – Sherlock needed his space too.

And, if he was completely honest with himself – something he liked to avoid when it came to this topic – each of them was still working out how to deal with Mrs. Hudson’s death. John found it easier to leave before the emptiness of the downstairs flat became a physical sensation.

He wasn’t sure Sherlock had found a particular method for dealing with it, but he _was_ sure it didn’t involve drugs, and was happy have that bit of knowledge.

He made his way to Regent’s Park, wandering the paths without any real destination in mind, watching boaters on the lake and the other pedestrians with only vague interest. Sherlock would be picking apart the details of their lives within seconds, but John enjoyed the anonymity sometimes. It was nice not to be immediately recognized, too. When he was on his own, he often went unremarked; Sherlock’s fame (or notoriety, John supposed with a faint smirk) had grown after his return from the dead and the three days missing in Wales.

John didn’t mind the work that brought in, but it was relaxing not to have people stare.

When the sensation that had driven him from the flat eased, he settled at a café, ordering himself a tea and something small to eat, and pulled up a book on his phone. The sun was warm enough to offset the cool breeze, and the quiet murmur of voices and traffic faded into a pleasant background hum as he read. The moment of relaxation was so perfect that John wasn’t the least bit surprised when his phone buzzed, showing Sherlock’s number and breaking the peaceful silence.

“Paris, John!” Sherlock exclaimed before John could even say hello – not that the daft genius he called his partner ever bothered with conversational norms when it came to speaking with him.

“Um, nope. Still in London,” John replied, lips quirking into a smile.

“What?” Sherlock demanded. “Not _you_ , John, don’t be absurd.”

“Ah,” John said. “You’re taking me on a romantic holiday then?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, the suggestion of held breath – John could practically smell the smoke as Sherlock raced to switch mental tracks and figure out a way to placate his partner without disappointing him.

He grinned.

“What’s the case?” he asked.

“You need to book us tickets.” John was sure he caught a hint of relief behind the order, although it might have been wishful thinking. “Use Mycroft’s card, I don’t want to be sitting in the cramped section.”

“Don’t you think he’ll notice?” John asked, the smile still playing on his lips as he gathered his things to head home.

“And a hotel,” Sherlock continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “I’ll send you a name; who knows where you’d put us if left to your own devices.”

“Somewhere we can afford?” John suggested. _In Paris, in August, last minute?_ he added to himself.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John; use Mycroft’s card for that, too.”

“Does he have some account just for you to keep you happy?”

There was a derisive snort on the other end of the line.

“I’m sure he’d like to think he does,” Sherlock sniffed. “That’s not the account we’ll be using. I’ll pack your things.”

“Oh no you bloody won’t!” John snapped back, picking up his pace. “I’ll be home in five minutes. I don’t even want to think what you’d bother packing for me – or what you’d leave out.”

“I’m a genius, John,” Sherlock replied with feigned coolness. “I can be relied upon to pack a suitcase.”

“Yeah,” John said with a grin, still keeping up his quick stride toward Baker Street. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”


	2. Chapter 2

"You're joking, right?"

The look Sherlock shot him from across the small space in the cab would have been enough to turn the atmosphere frosty if it hadn't been mid-August – and if John hadn't known his partner so well.

"Do you imagine I'd travel to Paris as a joke?" the detective drawled.

"As a ruse, maybe," John replied.

"A ruse for what?" Sherlock demanded by way of reply. "This is a _case_ , John!"

" _This_ ," John snapped, waving the letter for emphasis, "sat on your desk for months after you decided it was boring and the author was too French!"

"Don't be absurd." The offhanded tone made John repress a growl. "If you'd brought this to my attention, I'd remember. _This_ is the kind of case I've been waiting for!"

"What? Wait– just– no. First of all, _you_ opened it and translated it for me – it's written in French! I don't speak French!"

"That's your handwriting," Sherlock said, nodding to the notes John had jotted down after the fact.

"Based on _your_ translation! I just said I don't speak French! I know it's hard to listen to the sound of other people's voices–"

"There are online translation programmes," Sherlock murmured dismissively, and John couldn't contain the irritated sigh this time.

"This is all on you," he snapped. " _You_ opened it, _you_ told me what it said, _you_ decided it was boring because – if I remember right – some employee stole it or he binned it, because that's exactly what people do with priceless family heirlooms."

"It's not priceless," Sherlock said with infuriating reasonableness. "It says ' _precious_ gemstone' right in the letter."

"It's been five months," John sighed. "Why is it just _now_ interesting?"

"It was always interesting," Sherlock sniffed. "Just because you couldn't appreciate it at the time…"

"Talking about yourself in the second person now?" John enquired, arching an eyebrow.

"I don't see why you're so upset. You _are_ getting a free trip to Paris out of this. City of Love, if memory serves."

"Yes, because that's precisely why you got it in your head to go to Paris this very minute."

"It was at least an hour ago, John," Sherlock replied with a scowl.

"It's because you were bored out of your tree and Greg's probably sick of answering your whiny texts."

"I haven't got a tree," Sherlock replied primly. "And my texts are always insightful and informative."

"Sure they are," John muttered, shaking his head – truth be told, it wasn't too difficult to understand why Sherlock had snatched up the first thing he could right now. _How_ this particular letter had ended up being the first thing Sherlock had seen had been somewhat of a mystery until John had got home to find the flat more or less turned upside down.

The detective claimed it was 'tidying up', which was Sherlock-code for 'I need to not be thinking right now'. The letter, which had likely been resting innocuously in some forgotten pile, had probably only caught his attention because of John's handwriting on it.

 _Well,_ the doctor thought, _better than nothing._

John himself had found the letter intriguing back when Sherlock had first opened it and declared it boring and pointless, but he also knew when not to push it.

And he had to admit Sherlock was right. He _was_ getting a free trip to Paris out of it –although John wondered what Mycroft would say when he saw the bill. Since they were going anyway, he was fairly certain he could wrangle an extra day or two out of his partner after Sherlock had dazzled everyone with his brilliance and was soaring on a post-case high.

He flipped the envelope over, eyes skimming the quick, sure handwriting of the return address.

 _Alexandre Georges, 511 Rue Avenel_.

"He does know we're coming, right?"

"He's been expecting us for five months," Sherlock murmured, waving a hand vaguely.

"In other words, you haven't bothered to contact him."

" _He_ contacted _me_. He should be grateful we're bothering to come at all."

John carefully didn't point out that a simple phone call or email could have saved them the trouble and that Sherlock solved most of his cases from the comfort of their home. It was precisely that location Sherlock was trying to avoid.

 _Could get that holiday even earlier_ , he mused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. All sorts of things could have happened between Georges sending the letter and now – including the missing gem being recovered, or the client himself simply not being available.

John forewent mentioning that as well; he was taking his free trip to Paris no matter what.

If there was nothing for them to do, he'd find more creative ways to distract the detective. If there _was_ a case, with criminals to chase and police to harass, well then, all the better.

* * *

They garnered more attention at the airport that John had anticipated; Sherlock scowled through it – more, John thought, because he had to share his limelight with the doctor, who took compliments about the blog with delight. A muttered word to Sherlock had the detective if not smiling for photographs, then at least not wearing his 'everyone else is an idiot' glower. John dealt with the comments on Sherlock's hair from readers who were tracking its regrowth thanks to the blog, managing to cut Sherlock off before he got out his most incisive remarks.

When they made it onto the plane, he sank gratefully into the (relatively) generous seat, thankful that Sherlock had insisted Mycroft foot the bill. The attendants in the small business class cabin were more discreet than the other passengers had been in the terminal, but he caught a couple of knowing looks regardless.

He enjoyed the relative anonymity – not to mention the free drinks – while it lasted; John had serious doubts that Mycroft would let them travel back the same way. At very least, there'd be a cancelled credit card. More likely, John suspected wryly, they'd be summarily rounded up by some shadowy government agency.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said when John voiced this thought. "If he doesn't know by now, he will do by the time we've landed. This time, he'll _know_ where we are."

"He can't know yet," John pointed out. "We haven't got any irritated texts or calls."

"I turned our mobiles off," Sherlock replied, and John was sure he hadn't imagined that glint in his partner's eyes. "Safety procedures, after all."

"You probably did it in the cab," John sighed, slouching down comfortably in his seat. Sherlock didn't say anything, but looked smugly pleased with himself.

Whatever celebrity they had in the UK apparently didn't extend to France – they were waved through customs by a disinterested agent who glanced only sparingly at their British passports and asked no questions. John wondered – privately – if the lack of attention would put Sherlock off just as much as its overabundance, but there was a determined spring to his partner's step.

He was the case.

Even if the client didn't know it yet.

"We need to find the cab stands," John murmured as they wound their way into the main concourse. "I don't suppose you'd consent to take a coach. There _is_ one, you know. Just as a point of interest."

Sherlock's scowl was answer enough, and made John grin.

"Not necessary," his partner said.

"What, the coach?"

"Or the cab."

"We're going to walk, then? Or maybe Mycroft's arranged a car for us? Out of the goodness of his heart?"

"I shudder to think of the day he starts making loving gestures, John. No, we're neither walking nor getting a driver. I've arranged a vehicle for us."

" _You're_ going to drive? On French roads?"

"You make it sound as if they differ significantly from other roads."

"They do drive on the right here, you know. And you can't just decide not to because you're British."

"I know how to drive in France," Sherlock replied primly.

John raised his eyebrows and grinned when Sherlock subjected him to a short, stony silence as they approached the desk. He cast a questioning look at his partner when the agent asked them to wait before disappearing briefly, but Sherlock refused to meet his gaze, projecting an air of innocence that never failed to leave John even more suspicious.

"The keys, _monsieur_ , and, of course, two helmets as you requested."

"A motorcycle?" John asked as two polished black helmets were set on the counter in front of them, shaded visors gleaming.

"Very well deduced, John," Sherlock replied, corners of his lips twitching smugly.

"Wait– can you even drive a motorcycle?"

"Would I be renting one if I couldn't?"

"You?" John asked. "Probably. You're a madman behind the wheel."

"This has two fewer wheels than a typical vehicle, so you should be pleased. Of course, if you'd rather drive…"

"No, no," John said, refusing to admit he couldn't actually do it – not that Sherlock wouldn't have figured that out, but he wasn't giving his partner the actual satisfaction, "it was your mad plan, you see it through. Just, you know, don't get us killed."

* * *

By the time they reached the hotel, it wasn't Sherlock John was worried about causing an accident, but himself.

He'd settled for holding his partner loosely around the waist – it felt somewhat more secure than the hand holds – and it hadn't escaped even his observational abilities that his grip had tightened during the trip.

Not out of nervousness. Driving a Land Rover off road through possibly IED-infested terrain had prepared him for almost anything, even a motorcycle trip through the heart of Paris.

The simple fact was that the longer they drove, the sexier Sherlock became.

He _did_ know how to drive a motorcycle in Paris, and very expertly as far as John's limited experience let him judge. They wove smoothly in and out of traffic, racing down the motorway towards the city's centre, zipping seamlessly along side other bikes. It became harder and harder to pay attention to the sights and landmarks around them as he focused on the way Sherlock moved with the bike, as if he were born to it, as if it was an extension of his body. It obeyed him without question, slowing, speeding up, slipping into the free spaces between cars or lanes.

It didn't help John's resolve one bit when Sherlock pulled the helmet off after they'd come to a halt, short, dark curls tumbling haphazardly around his face.

 _We're on a case_ , John reminded himself sternly as he forced his concentration to untying their overnight bags and following his partner into the hotel. The lobby itself distracted him, if only briefly, as he drank in what Mycroft was unwittingly paying for and listened to Sherlock negotiate for their room key, all while certain the reservation would have been cancelled and they'd be evicted unceremoniously.

But if Mycroft knew, he was either choosing to let them get away with it, or was waiting to see where this went. Knowing the elder Holmes, it was probably the latter. Spontaneous generosity wasn't particularly his style, especially with his baby brother. If he could leverage this for something in the future, John knew full well that he would.

John was even all right until they reached the room, but the sight of Sherlock dropping the two helmets casually on the bed undid him again. A deep breath kept him from crossing the room and knocking his partner bodily onto the mattress.

"You bloody do this on purpose, don't you?" he growled.

"Do what?" Sherlock said with his oh-so-innocent expression.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I haven't the faintest idea," Sherlock sniffed.

"The motorcycle, the–" John gestured wordlessly at Sherlock, fumbling for the right word, "you."

"The me?"

"You owe me," John said, crossing his arms, adopting his best captain's stance and glare.

"I do?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. "And what, precisely, do I owe you?"

"Sex," John said bluntly. "Lots of it. Bringing me to Paris, getting the motorcycle, being all… exactly what you always are."

"Myself?" his partner suggested.

"That."

"We're on a case."

"And after the case, we'll still be in Paris."

"Excellently observed," his partner murmured, a small smile playing on his lips, a familiar gleam in his grey eyes. John drew another deep breath to keep himself composed, firming his military stance even more. "I suspect you'll have ample opportunity to collect on your debt. But for now," Sherlock tossed one of the helmets across the small space, and John fumbled to catch it, "we have work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rue Avenel is not a real street in Paris. I claim creative license.


	3. Chapter 3

The building was modern, all smooth, sleek lines rising up at least a dozen storeys above street level. Just far enough outside the city's centre that they'd lost the tourists and the area had taken on a residential feel – it was a touch too suburban for John's taste, which make him smirk at himself. Baker Street had spoiled him.

_In more ways than one_ , he mused, letting his eyes wander down Sherlock's lean frame as the detective led the way toward the building's main entrance. He should have known the attention wouldn't go unnoticed; Sherlock glanced over a shoulder, arching an eyebrow pointedly.

"Focus, John."

"All right, all right," John chuckled, holding up his hands in defeat. Sherlock gave him another glare for good measure. The expression vanished as he turned away, replaced smoothly by one of professional boredom as he strode into the lobby, subjecting it to a cold scrutiny.

John didn't kid himself that the roll of his eyes went unremarked, but Sherlock chose to ignore him this time, honing in instead of the well-dressed man behind the security desk.

" _Bonjour, messieurs._ "

"I'm here to see Alexandre Georges," Sherlock snapped, and John knew full well the English was for his benefit. His partner's aptitude for languages had ceased to surprise him, but the protective – almost proprietary – reaction did.

Only Sherlock, he thought, could take offense at a French person speaking French in France because he'd had the audacity to do so in front of John.

A short-lived flicker of surprise crossed the guard's face but he nodded.

" _Bien sur_. Is 'e expecting you?"

"I should think so," Sherlock sniffed. John resisted the urge to elbow him – sharply – in the ribs.

"Your name, please?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The guard raised his eyebrows, not, John thought, in recognition, but rather surprise at the unconventional name. The doctor wondered how that would be managed with a French accent – or in French, he realized, because it was unlikely the guard would communicate with one of the residents in English just for them.

There was, in fact, a rapid conversation in French that John strongly suspected went beyond simply announcing who they were and being told to send them up. The guard's puzzled expression and eyes flickering their way backed that up, as did the irritated crease between Sherlock's eyes as the call continued.

"Told you that you should have called," John murmured, earning himself another sharp glare.

"He'll let us in," Sherlock muttered in reply.

"We'll see."

"Fifty quid."

"It's Euros here, you know. And you don't have a good track record betting against me."

"Euros then," Sherlock sighed.

"You're on."

"Good. He's just agreed to send us up."

"Oh bloody– that is _not_ fair."

"Using your own weaknesses against you? You should have paid more attention in French classes, John."

"I _will_ get you back for this," John growled.

"I look forward to seeing you try," Sherlock replied, putting a bright smile on his face as the guard rung off, gesturing them toward the lifts. John swallowed a curse, striding after his partner, who breezed into the glass and chrome elevator with a smug, triumphant smirk.

The client was waiting for them in the corridor when they stepped out of the lift, hovering just outside his flat. The grin that split his lips was one of pure delight, and the expression startled John into a half moment's pause.

He wasn't used to seeing such enthusiasm from a client. Nervousness, tenuous hope, desperation, a mix of all three… but not excitement, like a kid at Christmas getting exactly what he'd wanted.

Georges' age didn't help temper the expression at all; John had been expecting someone much older from the wording and tone of the letter, but he was probably younger than Sherlock by a year or two, no more than mid-thirties at best, and disarmingly friendly when he greeted them in accented but fluent English.

Even fairly smartly dressed in crisp jeans and pressed, short-sleeved shirt, he didn't strike John as a wealthy man missing a valuable family heirloom. The doctor checked himself – after all, they'd had moneyed clients in the past who didn't look it – but the flat they were ushered into suggested a comfortable life rather than a lavish one.

There was something faintly familiar about him, and John wished he'd had some time to do a bit of background research – or that Sherlock had bothered to even look Georges up before hauling them halfway across Europe.

_It'd be nice to know what we're getting into, even once_ , he thought with an inward snort.

"Sit, sit, sit," Georges bade them, waving them onto a cozy couch. The nervousness on Sherlock's face at the scatter of baby toys across a thick, pale carpet almost distracted John from the unexpectedness of their client. He grinned, determined to be at ease if only because Sherlock wasn't – and he doubted it helped the detective much that Georges was of a height with him. He had obvious Asian ancestry – Japanese, John thought – but some European as well.

"Coffee? I may 'ave some tea…"

"Coffee's fine," John said, speaking for both of them as Sherlock shook himself back with a general glare. "Black with two sugars for him, milk and no sugar for me."

" _Un moment_ ," Georges said, which John understood well enough. Their client vanished into his kitchen, reappearing shortly with freshly brewed coffee, and John grinned again at the suspicious way Sherlock sniffed his, as if expecting poison.

_Would serve him right_ , John thought.

"Forgive me," Georges said, claiming an overstuffed arm chair for himself, deftly moving a baby monitor so it was resting on the table next to him. Now that John noticed it, he could hear the faint sounds of soft breathing coming from it. "You probably 'ear this all time, but meeting you – it is amazing! I am a 'uge fan, _monsieur_ 'olmes – the website is, well, I would say a work of art, but perhaps a work of science would be a better compliment?"

Sherlock actually looked nonplussed for a moment, but Georges didn't seem to notice, still beaming like a kid at Christmas.

"And the blog, too, Doctor Watson. It is a gift to turn life into an exciting story, no?"

John found himself momentarily wordless, too – he hadn't quite thought of it like that before. Although Sherlock had certainly accused him of fictionalizing the truth, but he'd never really considered it a talent, and certainly not a gift.

"Thanks," he managed.

"The pleasure is all mine," Georges assured him. "I love the cases, always such brilliant deductions, _monsieur_ 'olmes! _Fantastique_! I 'ave learned a thing or two from them – and I 'ope you don't mind, 'ave used them a bit myself."

"You have?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course! I 'ave found your solutions very 'elpful in devising my own – and I should tell you, I 'ave a friend or two in the _gens d'armes_ who should admit the same."

Sherlock's confused and pleased expression was a new one on John, and he might have taken the opportunity to enjoy the way his partner was obviously scrambling for mental footing if he hadn't been doing the same.

"You would do well 'ere in _Paris_ , I should think, but of course, 'ome is 'ome and you must get cases from all over the world, yes?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock managed, casting a befuddled look at John, as if the doctor had the answers he didn't.

"That's why we're here," John put in.

"Is it?" Georges asked, face lighting up even more. "May I ask what the case is? 'ave you solved it? No– you can't need my 'elp, can you? I'd be delighted!"

"It's your case," John said. "Isn't it?"

"My case?" Georges asked, dark eyes flickering his way.

"Your case," Sherlock confirmed, the superior, clipped tone back in his voice – John doubted he had any idea what was going on, but had at least managed to suppress his shock. "You wrote me earlier in the year."

"I'm sure I didn't," Georges said, the confusion that had leeched from Sherlock's expression filling his.

"John," Sherlock said, and the doctor fumbled to put his coffee aside and pull out the letter. "A missing family gemstone, if I remember correctly."

"No, I'm sure I don't 'ave one of those." He leaned forward, taking the letter from John, eyes skimming the page before moving back across it more slowly. A puzzled frown shifted into another bright smile.

"Ah yes, this 'appens to me also."

"What does?" Sherlock demanded, but the sound of quiet fussing from the monitor distracted Georges' attention.

" _Excusez-moi, s'il-vous-plait,_ " he said, hurrying out of sight down the corridor.

"What the hell is going on?" John muttered. His partner made a sharp motion with his hand, silencing all further discussion. John pursed his lips, swallowing his questions and doing his best not to look completely at sea when Georges returned, balancing a baby girl – about six months old, if John was any judge – on his hip. She stared at them with an infant grogginess, sucking absently on a pacifier.

"My daughter, Élodie," he said, bouncing her gently as he reclaimed his seat. The girl squirmed a bit, reaching for the floor; Georges set her down and John watched, bemused, as she plucked a toy at random to clutch while staring at them.

"Mister Georges–"

"Please, Alexandre," Georges interrupted.

"What did you mean, this happens to you, too?" Sherlock pressed.

At the sound of his voice, the baby made a gleeful sound, pitching her toy aside and crawling across the carpet to grip the legs of his trousers and pull herself to standing. John couldn't quite swallow a laugh at Sherlock's startled, almost terrified expression. Élodie grinned around her dummy, smacking one of his knees insistently.

"Go on then," John said, Sherlock's frozen, petrified look only making him grin more. "She wants you to pick her up."

"I don't–"

"She's very good with strangers," Georges said cheerfully. Sherlock's grey eyes flickered over the room quickly, as if seeking escape, but pinned by the tiny human clutching him.

Carefully, as if she might explode, Sherlock picked the girl up, settling her on one knee and patting her vaguely on the back in a way that told John he'd seen it done and suspected it was the right thing to do.

"The letter," Georges said, drawing their attention back to him. "I get them, too. From my readers."

"Your readers?" John echoed.

"They can be quite entertaining, no? Some very good ideas sometimes. I've used one or two of them in my novels, just pieces 'ere and there. Inspiration comes from strange places, does it not?"

"Yeah," John said, feeling as if an answer was required of him. It dawned on him, slowly, that they were dealing with a writer, probably a novelist.

"You didn't write that?" Sherlock demanded, glaring at the letter. Georges gave him an understanding smile, which John suspected probably didn't help the situation.

" _Monsieur_ 'olmes, you 'ave email, yes?"

"Of course," Sherlock scowled.

"So do I. I'd love to bring a case to you – if I 'ad one – but why in the world would I write you by post and in French? You are English, you 'ave email. Better to contact you that way, I think. Besides, this is not my 'andwriting."

"Do you recognize it?" Sherlock demanded.

"No, but as I said, this also 'appens to me."

"You're the mystery writer," John said, the name finally clicking as the pieces started to fit together.

"Of course," Georges replied, casting him a quick, puzzled glance. "You didn't know?"

"Someone didn't think it was necessary to do any research beforehand," John muttered, and Sherlock managed to look at least a little abashed – although the doctor doubted it was genuine. He'd probably get the blame later for not doing the background work. It _was_ often his job, after all, to do the tedious bits.

"I suspect someone has played us for fools," Sherlock said, voice verging on dark. John cleared his throat at the tone, giving the baby a pointed glance, and the detective glowered but nodded curtly.

"And you should have known," Sherlock continued, narrowing his eyes coolly at John. "You've read his work."

John raised an eyebrow in response but forewent pointing out that so had Sherlock – mostly because the books (which belonged to John, of course) had been pitched across the living room and the plotlines decried as the predictable offerings of a simplistic mind.

John, on the other hand, had thoroughly enjoyed them.

"'ave you?" Georges asked.

"Brilliant work," John said firmly, refusing to look his partner's way. "Rivals Sherlock's own."

"I doubt that," Georges laughed. "But thank you for saying so. Just a moment – I 'ave proof copies of the new one, let me get you each one."

Before Sherlock could protest or John could draw a breath to stop him doing so, Georges disappeared down the hallway again, leaving them with the baby, who was happily gurgling on Sherlock's knee. She took the opportunity to pitch the dummy halfway across the room and sat patiently waiting for half a moment before her tiny features began to crumple.

"Better get it," John said.

"I'm rather encumbered at the moment."

"She can't weigh more than ten kilos," John replied, but stood to scoop up the dummy, and a toy, so as to offset any infant distress. She took them happily, grinning around the pacifier at Sherlock. "She likes you."

"Don't get any ideas," Sherlock warned darkly. John only shrugged, delighting in the faint horror that rose in Sherlock's eyes.

Georges reappeared, two books in hand, pressing them into John's, who smiled and thanked him for the autographs and assured him they'd be well liked.

"What do you mean, this has happened to you?" John asked as the Frenchman settled back into his chair.

"Oh, the case, yes. I 'ave readers who like to send me little mysteries, and sometimes claim the stories 'ave 'appened to them – or to someone they know, perhaps a friend or a distant family member, never serious of course. Many of them are amusing and nothing more, but some of them are quite creative and detailed. I'm sure it 'appens to you all the time – false cases to get your attention… although perhaps they do not always get you to _Paris_."

"No," Sherlock said coldly. "They do not. So sorry to have bothered you Mister – Alexandre, it certainly was not our intention to impose."

"No imposition, I assure you," Georges said, oblivious to Sherlock's impatient shifting, the tense set of his muscles that John knew well meant the detective thought he was wasting his time. "It is not every day one gets to meet an internationally renowned sleuth. Do you mind if I keep this?" He tapped the letter resting next to him on the table. "It may be useful."

"Please do," Sherlock said, and John had to smother a smirk as his partner tried to figure out how to rise and hold a baby at the same time. Georges scooped her up expertly.

"I will 'ave something to tell my friends in the police," he said, still smiling broadly. John brushed his fingers against Sherlock's arm, letting them linger a moment, a warning to behave. "They will be jealous. They are big fans."

"Too bad the Met aren't," John murmured, feigning innocence when Sherlock scowled. He made sure to take the time to thank Georges and say good-bye politely, assuring the other man they'd enjoy Paris while they were here and that he'd promote the new book on his blog, all while aware of Sherlock's simmering, jittery impatience behind him. The door had barely closed behind them when Sherlock's hand was on his back, propelling him forcefully to the lift.

"Sherlock–"

"We have to go. _Now_."

"It wasn't _that_ bad–" John tried to protest, being half shoved into the lift as soon as there was enough space between the doors to fit through.

"We were lured out of London, John!"

"Lured?" John said. "Sherlock, it was a fake case–"

"Exactly!"

"And you told me just this morning that one of the emails you got was made up! This isn't the first time you've had a fake case, and you know it!"

"It's the first time it's got us out of London!"

"To what end?" John demanded as they reached the ground floor and Sherlock nearly dragged him from the building, the security guard looking startled as they hurried by. "It was sent five months ago! It's not an effective set up if it takes us half a year to get around to leaving!"

"Someone could be waiting on an opportunity–"

"What opportunity?" John interrupted, his own patience unwinding. "Christ, listen to yourself! Sending a letter that _might_ get us to leave London if you were interested enough to do so – and it's not like you couldn't have sorted this out from home! It's not exactly a good trap if we find out the bait is faked before we even left!"

"But that's not what happened, is it?" Sherlock pressed, pulling his mobile from his suit jacket pocket. "We're here, and we're meant to be in London." He put the phone to his ear, the flicker of his gaze to the middle distance silencing John's protests.

"Shut up, Mycroft," he said abruptly, ignoring John's faint warning huff. "Something's going to happen. You need to find out what it is. Now."


	4. Chapter 4

"He's lying."

"He's not lying."

"Of course he's lying!"

"Why would he lie?"

"Because he's Mycroft!"

John sighed again, folding his arms and giving Sherlock his best captain's glower, inwardly pleased when the detective shifted, eyes darting away briefly.

"He wouldn't lie about this," John said. He was sure about that – he wouldn't put it past Mycroft to lie about anything else, but Britain was his one true love. John knew if there was any real hint of danger, the elder Holmes brother would do everything he could to protect it. If Sherlock was a resource, Mycroft would use him, even if it meant putting his baby brother in harm's way.

He had before, after all.

John would fight Mycroft tooth and nail on that, if it came to it – but here and now, there was nothing to fight. Nothing beyond the usual background criminal and terrorist chatter, nothing too loud or too quiet. Nothing that had caught Mycroft's very keen and honed senses.

And he _would_ be on alert for it, John knew, with both of them out of the country.

The way Sherlock shifted, annoyed, told John he knew it too. Knowing it and admitting it were two different things – admitting it meant owning up to the fact that a prank case had got them all the way to Paris for no good reason. John had no illusions that Sherlock would have preferred some imminent attack or complicated conspiracy if only because it would mean he was _right_ – and, of course, because it would let him go charging back to London instead of dithering on a Paris sidewalk, arguing about Mycroft's intentions.

"It could be Baker Street," Sherlock insisted, lips pursed into a thin, displeased line.

"Sherlock, everything's fine."

"Everything is never fine!" his partner snapped. "There's always something, John!"

"Everything is as fine as it could be. You _know_ Mycroft is watching the flat. He's always watching the flat!" He sighed again, fishing out his mobile. "But I'll have Greg and Amanda keep an eye on it, if it makes you happy."

"You said Harry and Amanda were going to watch it while we were away," Sherlock grouched, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, managing somehow to hunch his shoulders and tower over John at the same time.

"That doesn't mean they're temporarily moving in – and before you even suggest it, we are _not_ giving my sister the ground floor flat."

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed as John rolled his eyes and fired off a text to both DIs. He didn't have to wait long for a reply from either of them; even several months after Wales, they were still on alert.

They all were. John could feel it in himself, see it reflected in the tension that still settled into Sherlock's muscles despite his conversation with Mycroft. Would Sherlock before Wales have jumped to the conclusion they'd been led here deliberately? _Probably_ , John thought – but he doubted his partner would be eyeing every passer-by so suspiciously, seeing connections that weren't really there.

For his part, he thought he saw a very bright and glaring one with Mycroft's name written all over it. Sherlock's brother had denied it when John suggested it, pointing out that he'd hardly go to all that trouble to arrange them a holiday, but John wasn't so sure he bought it.

That kind of game was right up Mycroft's street, and the doctor would have bet their house and all their savings that Sherlock would never knowingly accept such a gift from his brother. They needed a break, but Sherlock wouldn't have copped to that even if John had suggested it, say nothing of Mycroft.

"We're here now," John said, after satisfying Sherlock with the DIs' responses.

"Oh very well deduced, John. Your talent for stating the obvious is stronger than ever."

"You don't have a case," John continued, ignoring Sherlock's blatant eye roll at another obvious statement. "And we're not needed back in London."

"I am _always_ needed in London," Sherlock sniffed. "I've got an international reputation to maintain. I can't go gallivanting around the world at a moment's notice!"

"You did just say it was an international reputation," John pointed out, not even trying to smother the grin at Sherlock's irritated expression.

"For the _work_ , John!"

"Well, even the world's only consulting detective is allowed holidays. You haven't _got_ any cases on, Sherlock. Only this morning, you wrote off everything in your inbox as a waste of time and tore up the flat trying to find something to do. Mycroft's got nothing for you, the Met's got nothing for you, and, as it turns out, neither does a famous French mystery author."

"All the more reason to go back!" Sherlock insisted. "There's nothing for us here!"

"There's Paris," John said.

"Do they give some kind of NHS award for stating the glaringly obvious?" Sherlock demanded.

"We're in Paris, in the summer, and without a case. And I don't know about you, but after being lost and stranded in Wales for three days, I think we've both earned a bit of a break."

"We were hardly stranded, John. The very word implies we were physically unable to leave–"

"We're on holiday, Sherlock. As of right now. Whether you like it or not."

"Whether I like it or not? An enforced holiday? How is that even possible?"

"I will make you enjoy it," John said, folding his arms again.

"What are you going to do? Drag me into enjoyment kicking and screaming?"

"If I have to," John said with a grin. "Especially the screaming bit." Sherlock stared at him for a brief moment, then rolled his eyes.

"Relax," John said. "Sherlock. _Relax_. We can take a few days without London falling apart, and if Greg needs you – if anyone _really_ needs you, they know how to get in touch with you. At worst, we're a two hour train ride away, and you _know_ Mycroft could send a jet. He's probably got one on stand by, just in case."

Sherlock shifted, annoyed, almost shrugging but refusing to meet John's eyes for a moment.

"What do you suggest we do?" he snapped.

"You've been here before, but I never have," John replied.

"You want to do _tourist_ things?" Sherlock groaned.

"Yep. And there's a certain debt I want to collect on. Repeatedly."

"It won't be any fun," Sherlock grouched.

"Really?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Not _that_ ," Sherlock sighed. "The rest. There will be… people."

"And me," John reminded him.

"Yes, John, and obviously you."

"You won't have to talk to them," John said with a light shrug and a smile. "And I'll make sure you have fun." He could see Sherlock warring with himself, well past the point of defeat but not wanting to admit it.

"You will, will you?"

"Oh yeah," John replied.

"And how, pray tell?"

"I have my ways," John smiled. "Trust me."

Sherlock scowled again, and John knew he'd won.

"All right," the detective muttered. "But just this once."

* * *

"Nope."

Sherlock twisted, flipping the helmet's visor up, grey eyes narrowed at John.

"Nope?" he asked.

"Nope," John agreed.

"Nope to what?"

John nodded at the hotel across the street, refusing to relinquish his hold around Sherlock's waist.

"It's our hotel, John."

"Yeah I can see that. But we're not stopping here."

"You said you wanted to collect on your debt," Sherlock sniffed.

"I do," John said with a grin. "And I will. But it's a gorgeous day and it's been a long time since lunch. I'd like to see some of Paris and have something to eat – preferably at the same time. I'm willing to bet a detective with an international reputation knows a few places that fit that bill."

He didn't mention that Sherlock had been here during his nine month "death". John doubted his partner had done much in the way of tourist activities then. Even if he was complaining about it now (or at least glowering at John in a very complaining way), the doctor wanted to overlay some of those memories with more positive ones.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, snapping the visor shut. "Hold on."

John did, grinning behind his own visor as the city zipped past, the downward slope of the streets taking them toward the river. The Eiffel Tower came into view, and John made a mental note to buy them tickets when he had a moment on his phone without Sherlock paying attention – the detective might gripe and mutter, but John wanted to see it first hand, and he'd bet Sherlock had never actually been.

Sherlock parked the bike near the river and locked their helmets in the small box that seemed designed for that purpose; John couldn't resist a grin at the way Sherlock's curls were mashed so that only the ends sprang free. Sherlock huffed at the gaze and ruffled his hair until it approached something like its normal self, glaring at his reflection in his darkened phone screen until he was satisfied.

"Take your time," John said when the detective slipped his phone back into a pocket.

"I'm quite ready to get this over with," Sherlock snapped, which only made John grin more, lacing his fingers through his partner's and leading him down towards the river bank where a series of small cafés and restaurants were strung out, comfortable chairs and umbrellas enticing the tourists wandering by to stop.

The sun was beginning to slip toward the horizon, lengthening the shadows, but still bright in the sky. It was a bit chillier down by the water, but John didn't mind, especially when the restaurant he settled on (because asking Sherlock to pick was a fool's errand) provided them each with a blanket. John found them a slightly more private spot, tucked towards the back of the open air restaurant, low-slung seats partially obscured by large potted plants. He could see the river sliding by in the near distance, but they were less noticeable, and it was nice, he thought, to have a bit of anonymity.

He ordered them some food and a bottle of champagne, refusing to be put off by a sulk that had no serious bite to it. It would have been better if there had been a case; Sherlock didn't do well with that kind of disappointment, and it probably irked him not to be at home where he could tear up the flat or throw himself on the sofa like a proper drama queen.

The champagne came on ice and after the waiter had vanished, leaving them in relative peace, John shuffled his chair up next to his partner's, spreading the blankets over both of them. He sat back with his glass, other hand finding Sherlock's beneath the covers, lacing their fingers together.

The food came and went, and Sherlock ate without complaining, which John considered a minor miracle. The detective had finally managed to regain the weight nine months in hiding and three days lost in Wales had stolen from him, but John kept a sharp eye on it anyway, knowing Sherlock did the same to him. When their plates had been cleared away, John refreshed their drinks, refitting the blankets carefully.

"Why him?" Sherlock demanded suddenly. "Why Georges?"

"Sherlock," John sighed.

"It must mean something, John!"

"Yes. It means Mycroft's been in our flat – repeatedly – and because you're both creepily observant, he's seen that I've got some of his books."

"He said he didn't do it," Sherlock muttered.

"Bollocks. He knows I like Alexandre's writing and that you probably hate it, and he wanted you to take a holiday. _Us_ to take a holiday. He couldn't just offer – you'd have said no, and anyway, that's not like him."

"Mycroft doesn't do _nice_ ," Sherlock said.

 _He tries. Sometimes,_ John thought, but didn't bother arguing the point.

"Besides–"

"Shut up," John said.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, derailed suddenly from whatever complaint he'd had, grey eyes narrowing.

"I said, shut up. I don't want to talk about your brother. Neither do you, frankly."

Sherlock stared at him a moment, then slouched down further in his chair.

"What _do_ you want to talk about?" he muttered. "Something trivial, no doubt."

"Nope," John said, ignoring the eyebrow raised pointedly. "I don't want to talk about anything."

"So we'll just sit here, shall we?"

"Not that either," John replied with a grin, catching Sherlock's chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling his partner into a slow kiss. He pulled away when Sherlock tensed, moving back just far enough to see the reluctance in the detective's eyes.

They were usually very careful about public displays; Sherlock's reputation was for his work, and John had no desire to make their personal life a source of tabloid discussion.

But this wasn't London, and no one really knew them here. The woven bamboo trellis overhead obscured them from those passing by at street level, and sheltered as they were by the plants, they weren't particularly visible to the other restaurant patrons – even if anyone had been paying attention them.

He could see Sherlock coming to the same conclusion, grey eyes flickering past John briefly before meeting his gaze again. It would be nice, John thought, not to be constantly on his guard about who might be watching.

He tipped his head forward slightly, pausing to give Sherlock a chance to stop it if he wanted. Sherlock didn't move, didn't pull away or meet him, but his lips parted slightly and John took the unspoken invitation, kissing him again.

He kept it slow, without any demands, until he felt the tension begin to ease from Sherlock's muscles. John shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable without breaking the kiss, resting a hand on Sherlock's left leg, just above the knee, thumb brushing along the inseam of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock stiffened again, muscles tightening under John's fingers, and the doctor pulled away slowly, resting their foreheads together. Sherlock's pupils were slightly dilated but there was an uncertain set to his features. John let his hand slide down to Sherlock's knee, a slightly more neutral touch.

They'd never actually had sex in public before, although there had been a few times when waiting to get back to Baker Street (or at least somewhere private) had been a near thing – those times, both of them had been on a post-case high, buzzing with adrenaline and triumph, desperate and impatient.

Now, Sherlock had time to think about it, to let possibly better judgment overrule his body's responses.

"Want to stop?" John murmured, because as much as he intended to collect on his debt, he wasn't going to put Sherlock into an uncomfortable position. He hung onto that resolve when Sherlock's tongue darted distractingly over his lower lip.

"Someone might notice," the detective replied.

"Maybe," John agreed. "But we're under blankets. And if you stay quiet and let me do the work…"

Sherlock licked his lips again, quickly, eyes darkening even more before he gave a short, curt nod.

"You sure?" John asked. The brief, irritated look made him smile, and he kissed away the annoyance. He let his hand trail upward again, keeping the motions slow enough to let Sherlock adjust, but light enough that it didn't encourage too much relaxation. It felt like a minor victory when Sherlock spread his legs slightly, giving John better access.

He didn't take full advantage of it, not yet, letting his thumb drift almost to the point of being too high before tracing back down the outside of Sherlock's thigh. The detective pulled out of their kiss with a faint huff, and John smiled.

"Patience," he murmured, cutting off any reply with another kiss. Sherlock had done a decent job learning that over the past few months – at least in this very specialized area – but his generally impatient nature still won out more often than not.

He brushed his fingertips upward again, pausing to dig his thumb into dense quadriceps muscles, the sight of Sherlock's teeth catching his lower lip against a groan shooting straight to John's groin. He shifted slightly, aware that his jeans were becoming pleasantly restrictive, enjoying the sensation. His fingers closed over Sherlock's when the detective tried to reciprocate, and John shook his head.

"You first," he whispered, a thrum of pleasure shooting down his nerves when Sherlock swallowed hard. He wanted to dip his head, kiss and suck on that gorgeous neck, but that probably _would_ draw attention to them.

Sherlock gave another quick nod, eyes fluttering closed, and John trailed his hand all the way up, skimming his fingers over his partner's growing erection. Sherlock gasped, a quiet sound that John felt more than heard, lips pursing to contain a moan when John pressed down, running his thumb along the shaft.

He eased up, feeling the shudder that ran through Sherlock's body in response, and let his fingers drop back down, passing teasingly over Sherlock's balls. A deeper shudder made John smile, and he kissed Sherlock again, using the touch to keep his partner quiet as he tickled and scratched his nails lightly over the fabric of Sherlock's trousers.

"John."

The word settled in John's groin, making the pleasure sharper, more intense, as he pressed two fingers against the base of Sherlock's shaft. Muscles tightened, fighting the urge to thrust, and John paused, giving Sherlock a moment to get himself back under control.

He pressed down with his palm, brushing over the damp spot at the head with his thumb, swallowing a tiny whimper. John dragged his first two fingers up, pressing on either side of the head, and tugged lightly. Sherlock came with a quiet, startled gasp, and John swept his thumb over the damp spot again, humming against his partner's lips as Sherlock shuddered.

He broke the kiss, resting their foreheads together, watching the relief sweep across Sherlock's features. For a long moment, the detective was still before blinking open pupil-darkened eyes. A smile touched the edges of Sherlock's lips – a genuine one, not a knowing smirk – and he brushed their noses together, almost but not quite kissing. John repressed a shudder of his own, acutely aware of Sherlock's smell and the desperate tightness in his groin. He wanted Sherlock's hands on him but swallowed against a plea, keeping himself quiet.

The sound of his zipper being opened was almost shockingly loud – there was no way anyone else could have heard it, but John felt sure they'd be caught now. The momentary panic fled, as did every other rational thought, when two long violinist's fingers wormed into his pants, rubbing over his cockhead. John gripped the arm of his chair under the blankets, white-knuckled, when Sherlock traced down the shaft with his index finger, drawing slick, random patterns.

Lips touched his, warm and relaxed where John's were tense, and he couldn't quite stop his hips from pushing upward when Sherlock swiped his thumb across the head. John's teeth sunk into Sherlock's lower lip when Sherlock's pressed down, fingers echoing the tugging motion John had just used on him.

The moment seemed suspended, as if it would go on forever, the pleasure making him ache. He shuddered as it peaked, half-convinced someone must have noticed by now, because it must have been ages since they started, but the sounds of the restaurant drifted back to him, the unconcerned clink of cutlery and glass, the undisturbed murmur of conversation.

"Christ," John exhaled quietly, relaxing again, able to ease his grip on the arm of the chair. Sherlock's lips quirked again, more wryly this time, but with a satiated warmth that John loved, that was his and his alone.

"I think I might need a drink," he murmured. Sherlock hummed, brushing their lips together, and the champagne glass was pressed lightly into his hand, filled almost to the brim. Sherlock's was half empty, and the detective didn't miss the look John gave it.

"I'm driving," his partner reminded him. "You'll have to finish the rest."

"That puts you at a disadvantage," John pointed out, not quite able to resist running his fingers into Sherlock's short curls, letting one slide through his thumb and forefinger. "Or me, depending on how you look at it."

"They'll have champagne at the hotel. And room service. I imagine our bed is quite comfortable, too."

"I'd like to test that theory," John said with a grin.

"It's best not to rush good champagne," Sherlock pointed out. "And you're the one who insists I be patient. Now it's your turn."

"I can wait," John assured him.

"I will make it worth your while," Sherlock promised.

"I know," John said with a grin. "You always do."


	5. Chapter 5

John raised his eyebrows at the room service tray deposited in their room, and didn't comment on how much Sherlock tipped the waiter. Considering that Mycroft still seemed to be paying for everything else, they could certainly afford it.

"Still hungry?" he asked when the door was safely shut again. He slipped the chain on for good measure, but didn't hang out the 'do not disturb' sign. It always seemed to announce 'I'm having sex' even when he'd used it just to get some extra sleep – and he didn't want to advertise what they were, in fact, going to do.

"Nope," Sherlock said, shutting off the tiny burner heating a small pot of something that smelled strongly of chocolate. He lifted the lid and the smell wafted more strongly into the room; it _was_ chocolate. John hadn't understood anything Sherlock had ordered, since it had all been in French, and had been surprised at how long the order had taken.

Now he knew why.

Sherlock removed the fondue bowl from the burner, setting away from the remnant heat. John watched, eyebrows raised and arms folded, but his partner didn't look at him until he'd poured them each a generous glass of champagne.

"You _have_ told me that I'm allowed to try new things," he pointed out.

"I have," John agreed, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips as he took his glass.

"And you did say you'd make me enjoy this holiday."

"I did."

"Well then."

"What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock didn't answer, setting his glass aside and taking John's as well. A warning look kept the doctor from crossing his arms again. He stood his ground, expectant, and Sherlock began to undress him, moving with slow, meticulous motions that deliberately brought his hands into more contact with bare skin than was strictly necessary.

John tried not to shiver under the intensity of Sherlock's gaze – he'd been on the receiving end of it before, but there was something almost jarring about being the focus of so much concentration. Each piece of his clothing was carefully folded away as it came off until John was standing, naked, in the center of the small room.

Sherlock nodded towards bed and John sat down, taking care not to rush. The deliberateness of Sherlock's movements warned him against it, and he knew he'd be in for a long wait. Sherlock's patient moments were still rare, and John made a point of enjoying them.

He watched, silently, as the small bowl of chocolate was placed on the bedside table next to the lube that had been put out earlier, joined by their champagne glasses, another small bowl, this one containing strawberries, and a salt shaker. At the last, John raised a questioning eyebrow; Sherlock met his gaze but ignored the unspoken question.

Sherlock undressed with the same fastidiousness he'd used on John; the doctor kept his hands folded over his stomach, enjoying the performance and the warmth settling into his lower belly without bothering to do anything about it. Sherlock wanted to run this show, and the predatory grace with he crawled onto the bed was proof enough of that. John felt his heart rate pick up, body responding to the dominance in Sherlock's movements, the possessive glint in his eyes.

He pursed his lips and Sherlock grinned wolfishly. John wanted suddenly to melt into the mattress, to let Sherlock do whatever he wanted for however long he wanted. Lips brushed over his; John's eyes fell closed, head tilting to seek more contact that was denied.

He opened his eyes again to find Sherlock watching him, grey eyes warmer. His partner leaned in, the kiss slower, gentler, and the desperate sensation ebbed. John ran his hands up Sherlock's forearms, breathing in his partner's exhalations when they broke apart, still close enough that he could almost feel Sherlock's lips against his.

The detective kissed him again, lightly, quickly, then sat back. A champagne flute was pressed against John's lips, and he raised his head enough to take a small sip. Sherlock dipped an index finger into the pale liquid and traced it over John's lips. The tender pressure made John part of his lips, tongue darting over the pad before he sucked gently, watching Sherlock's eyes darken in response. Sherlock pulled his hand away, replacing it with his mouth, and John wondered if he was imagining the faint tingling on his lips.

A strawberry was plucked from the bowl, and Sherlock dipped it into the glass, keeping it there a moment before holding it to John's lips. John took a bite, enjoying the slightly fizzy taste the champagne had given the fruit. Sherlock kissed him again, and John could taste the strawberry more strongly, overlain by the taste and smell of Sherlock.

The detective sat back, one hand skimming down to rest warmly on John's hip, a thoughtful expression on his face. The strawberry was pressed lightly against the hollow of his throat, and Sherlock traced absent patterns on his skin. John let his eyes drop closed, focusing on the sensation – berry juice sticking to his skin with sugary sweetness. It was different, but definitely not unpleasant, especially with Sherlock behind it.

It was moved away, the air cooler against his skin. He hummed when the strawberry was pressed against a nipple, gasping when Sherlock's lips closed around the nub, sucking gently. His fingers found Sherlock's hair, lacing into it and gripping, and he felt a smile against his skin before the tip of Sherlock's tongue darted out. John grunted, arching up, as teeth sank in, tugging.

The sharp sensation softened, leaving him breathing hard, forcing his fingers to unlock when Sherlock pulled away. A kiss was pressed into his sternum, and Sherlock nuzzled his skin before sitting up.

"Shh," his partner murmured, warm fingertips on John's eyes keeping them closed. He settled for listening, trying to figure out from the soft sounds of small movements what Sherlock was up to.

The sensation of something against his lips made him open his mouth again, and he tasted strawberry and chocolate this time. Sherlock chuckled softly, and John felt his partner's thumb against the edge of his lips, wiping off the excess chocolate. He licked it from Sherlock's thumb, opening his eyes to watch Sherlock's eyes darken.

"Eyes closed," Sherlock murmured. John obeyed with a slight smile, feeling the mattress shift as Sherlock moved away slightly. There was an unidentifiable sound and John gasped, eyes flying open, at the sudden sting as salt came into contact with broken capillaries.

Sherlock tempered the salt immediately with chocolate, pinching the nub between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing until the ache had spread to John's groin, making him moan. The detective dipped his head, sucking gently.

"Come here," John murmured, tugging on Sherlock's curls, pulling him up for a kiss. Sherlock opened to him, tongue playing against John's, tasting of salty chocolate.

He smiled as Sherlock sat up to pluck the bowl of chocolate from the bedside table, long fingers dipping into the warm liquid. Sherlock coated the other nipple, the sensation making John throb, fingers tensing against the sheets. He let out a slow breath when Sherlock pulled back, the detective's features all focused concentration as he very carefully tipped a drop of champagne onto the chocolate.

The hum against his skin made John arch up, biting his lip against a moan.

"Delicious," Sherlock murmured, licking the chocolate from his lips.

"Christ," John managed, settling his hands on his partner's hips, eyes trailing downward before dropping closed in an effort to keep some control. Breath brushed against his ear, accompanied by a soft chuckle and a kiss on the cheek.

"Patience," Sherlock said, echoing John's instruction from the restaurant, and John swallowed a groan. He felt the stretch of a smile on Sherlock's lips before the detective moved away again. For a moment, there was nothing, the silence accentuated by the smell of both of them and chocolate.

John, gasped, eyes flying open as two warm, chocolate-coated fingers pressed into one of his balls, drawing upward, leaving a sugary trail. He arched upward, palms and feet pushing him away from the mattress into Sherlock's hand. There was a low murmur of laughter, and Sherlock obliged him by increasing the pressure, letting his thumb dig in.

"Oh god," John managed, fingers bunching into the sheets, when Sherlock dipped his head, sucking John into his mouth, tongue teasing. John whimpered when the contact was broken, shuddering when a faint exhalation brushed over his straining cock.

"Please," he gasped, and Sherlock hummed, nearly undoing him. He shuddered again, harder, when Sherlock placed a light kiss against the shaft, tip of his tongue darting out quickly, too briefly. Another kiss was pressed into his abdomen, Sherlock's nose nuzzling the trail of hair that traced downward from his navel, still-chocolaty fingers pressing up under his balls, tugging gently.

"No–" He reached for Sherlock, desperate fingers clutching at whatever they could, as the detective moved away. Sherlock smirked, skimming a finger up John's erection as he reached for the strawberries, settling the bowl against the side of the doctor's hip. The cool porcelain gave John something to focus on – but that focal point didn't help when Sherlock drizzled a line of chocolate carefully over John's aching cock.

He plucked a strawberry from the bowl, holding it up briefly, before using the tip to spread the chocolate, drawing random patterns that made John's teeth grind together and his toes curl. The thoughtful expression on Sherlock's face was replaced by a slight smile, admiring his handiwork. One last long stroke had John gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, and Sherlock smiled again, a slow, sultry, knowing smile.

"Fuck," John cursed when the detective slid the fruit into his mouth. His cock twitched, hard, when Sherlock swallowed pointedly, and John reached out, grasping at his partner. "Sherlock– please– I can't–"

Sherlock huffed but the smile didn't entirely vanish. He moved up, as if for a kiss, and John couldn't stop himself from shaking his head. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, hands covering John's desperate ones, moving them away.

They were in his hair immediately anyway when Sherlock dipped his head, slipping his lips slowly – too slowly – around John's cock. In the back of his mind, John hoped there was no one on the other side of the wall, or that they were sound asleep, because he couldn't contain the cry, nor the moan of protest when Sherlock eased up, almost letting him slip free before sliding back down.

The hum around him nearly made him sob, aching muscles pushing him deeper into Sherlock's mouth; the detective steadied him with hands on his hips. John gritted his teeth, trying to hold desperate muscles still, unable to keep himself from pushing Sherlock's head down until he was brushing the back of the detective's throat. Fingers tightened on his hips but Sherlock didn't try to pull away, another hum making John shudder.

A hand slid over his hip, thumb digging into his balls while a deft twist of the wrist had two fingers pressed against his opening, rubbing lightly. John bit his lip, trying to keep himself from moaning, unable to stop the startled shout when Sherlock pushed the tips of his fingers inside. They were still slick from the chocolate, the sensation almost sticky, and the resistance was stronger without lube, making Sherlock's fingers feel bigger than normal, and rougher. They crooked lightly, and Sherlock hollowed his cheeks, pulling upward; John pushed back hard, thrusting into the mouth surrounding him, head arching back into the pillow as he came with a hoarse cry.

Sherlock worked him through it, easing off when John cringed, body shrinking from the sensation. The detective pulled back carefully, the sensation still making John shudder as shock eased gently into satiation. He reached for Sherlock, hands on his partner's face, fingers unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with the intermittent tremor. Sherlock's pupils were blown, muscles tense beneath John's hands, but he wasn't complaining as he let himself be pulled into a kiss, tasting of John and chocolate and strawberry.

"Whatever you need," John murmured when they broke apart. Sherlock gave a hasty nod, fumbling for the lube. He coated his hands carefully, but John could see them shaking, see the hammering pulse in his neck, the way his cock twitched as ran a hand up John's thigh.

John arched gently into the fingers that were slipped into him, moving with careful thrusts that helped open him up more quickly but which didn't seem to help Sherlock's resolve much. He closed a hand over his partner's wrist, nodding, not missing the relief on Sherlock's face. The detective coated himself quickly, groaning against John's neck as he pushed himself in.

John wound his legs over Sherlock's, thighs pressing against his partner's hips, heels dragging gently over the back of Sherlock's legs with each thrust. He let his hands roam Sherlock's back, fingers carding through short curls, as breath came in sharp pants against his skin.

"Come on," John murmured, digging his fingernails into dense ass muscles. "Come on, Sherlock."

There was a desperate nod against his shoulder, and John tightened himself deliberately, squeezing. Sherlock gasped, picking up his pace, and John kept a wince to himself, winding a hand back into Sherlock's hair, keeping him where he was. Sherlock thrust harder, movements losing their rhythm, then tensed, and John arched into him, shivering at the stimulation.

He stayed still until the breath against his neck had evened out a bit, then placed a kiss against the sweat-dampened hair clinging to Sherlock's temples.

"That," he murmured, "was a very good idea."

John felt the slow stretch of lips against his neck before Sherlock propped himself up, brushing their lips together.

"We still have nearly a full bottle of champagne," he pointed out. "Not to mention the fondue and the fruit."

"We really shouldn't let it go to waste," John agreed. "I'm sure we could find a crap film we'd both enjoy."

"Something French?" Sherlock suggested.

"Only if you translate the entire thing for me."

"There are subtitles, John," his partner sighed, wrinkling his nose.

"Oh sure, make me do all the work."

"Fine, something in English then," Sherlock conceded, pinching John's hip. "But _not_ one of your horrible Bond movies."

"You love those and you know it," John replied, carding his fingers lazily through curls, messing them up even more.

"Inept villains are _not_ entertaining. Honestly, where's the challenge?"

"Well it would certainly make your life easier."

"And more boring," Sherlock snorted. John grinned, kissing him again.

"Not Bond then," he agreed. "We'll find something. But first, we need to shower. And I think we'll have to make use of that spare set of sheets I saw in the closet."

* * *

John knew what had woken him the moment he blinked his eyes open in the unfamiliar darkness. That small combination of sensations that spelled _nightmare_ – tense muscles, rapid breathing, unconscious pulling away. His name spoken in a low, soft tone. It could have been a murmur but it was a plea, the word echoed by the nervous twitch of Sherlock's fingers.

John had never asked what the nightmares were – he _had_ asked, once, if Sherlock wanted to talk about it. Averted eyes and a short, sharp shake of the head were answer enough to that.

He had a pretty good idea.

Even without his name slipping out into the night, John would have pieced it together. A Semtex vest in a pool at midnight. A sniper's bullet marked for him. A missing body in a forlorn Welsh night.

It sparked a dark rage, to be played like that – not for himself, but for Sherlock. That someone with so little could have it toyed with, threatened to be taken away again and again until it had actually happened.

But anger didn't help, not here, not in these moments. He was no stranger to nightmares, although his own were easier. Not as bad these days (if he only counted the ones about the war, which was simpler). Sherlock's were complicated. Too many things, John suspected, tied up together, winding around him, pulling him down.

It had taken some time to learn, but he was better at keeping his partner asleep now. Waking him up was less productive – Sherlock would be cranky, petulant, stubborn. His normal self, but with embarrassment and doubt mixed in.

John disliked that combination as much as the detective did.

"'Sall right," he murmured when he heard his name again. Sherlock turned toward the sound, and John could just make out eyes moving beneath closed lids. "I'm right here." Fingers twitched against the duvet, searching; John covered them carefully, keeping his touch light, sliding his thumb over the ridges of knuckles.

The hand closed around his, hard; John winced but kept his voice level.

"I'm right here," he repeated, raising their joined hands to slip around his waist. It seemed to help if Sherlock knew where he was physically, and John wasn't surprised when his hand was released so Sherlock could wrap around him. He rubbed a hand lightly over Sherlock's back, feeling his partner's nose nuzzle his cheek, still searching.

"You've got me," John murmured. "It's all right, you've got me."

Sherlock tensed briefly then sighed harshly, all of the tautness evaporating from his muscles. In his sleep, he settled himself more securely around John, tucking himself into all the empty spaces. It was always a bit too warm, but John had never really been able to mind. It helped Sherlock, and it meant something to the doctor, too. He'd never admit it out loud, because it sounded ridiculously sentimental even inside his own mind, but it felt like it was erasing all the distance of nine-month and three-day absences.

"I'm here," he said again, even if it wasn't necessary anymore. "I love you." That was easier to say in the darkness without Sherlock being fully aware of it – not that they didn't each say it while conscious and together, but something about the anonymity of the night and being the only one awake made the words flow more freely. He'd always found it hard, talking about that sort of thing, embarrassed even though he had no reason to be.

Sherlock seemed to hear him, because there was a gust of warm breath against his temple, the faint tightening of fingers against his back. John murmured something meaningless, smoothing his hands over Sherlock's skin again, and the detective stilled.

He closed his eyes, waiting a few minutes to make sure his partner would stay peacefully asleep, then left himself drift off, too warm but contented.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a delicious luxury, waking up in a king-sized bed, the sun streaming through the sheer curtains adding to the warmth of Sherlock's body next to his. It would have been perfect if Sherlock had still been asleep, or just waking up too, but John didn't care.

It was amazing all the same, and he felt like he was cheating somehow – not guiltily, but with a satisfied thrum of pleasure.

"Ah, he _is_ alive," a warm baritone said from somewhere above him. John grinned sleepily, nosing the hip next to him, feeling a hand drop to card through his hair.

He pressed a kiss against Sherlock's skin, the memory of chocolate on his lips making him smile.

"Good morning to you, too," he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and half lost in skin and the light, downy duvet. He took a moment to appreciate the fact that Sherlock was at least still naked, closing his eyes and inhaling his partner's familiar scent.

"You'd better be booking us tickets for the Eiffel Tower," John said, propping himself on his forearms. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him, peering over the top of his phone.

"Why would I be doing that?" he drawled.

"Because," John said, pinching Sherlock's hip lightly, earning an equally light scowl, "that's what we're doing today."

"When did you become the arbiter of our plans?" Sherlock asked.

"When _I_ decided we were actually taking this holiday. I've never been and I want to go."

"It's not _that_ interesting," Sherlock said.

"Bollocks, you don't know that, because you've never been either."

"'Course I have," Sherlock sniffed, but refused to meet John's eyes.

"You? Not a chance."

"If there hasn't been a chance until now, why do you think there would be one today?" Sherlock asked, grey eyes glinting.

"Because you love me madly and would do anything for me."

"Is that so?"

"It is. I've accumulated a lot of evidence, you know."

"Well," Sherlock sighed, and John grinned at the mock defeat in his partner's voice, "far be it for me to deny you the opportunity to collect more. Let's have Mycroft provide us with some tickets, shall we?"

John wondered what Mycroft thought of the charges they were accruing, but supposed it was a small price to pay if it was getting him what he wanted. Against all odds, Sherlock was actually beginning to relax and have an almost-proper holiday.

"What were you doing?" John asked. "Before I woke up."

"Research," Sherlock murmured, distracted by the purchase. John cocked an eyebrow.

"So, while I was sleeping in bed next to you, you were looking up another man online?"

"How do you know I was looking up another man?" Sherlock replied, the cool hint in his voice completely feigned.

"You were researching Alexandre. Admit it."

"I see no reason to deny it."

"So you _were_ checking out other men online."

"It was one man, John," Sherlock sighed. "And I wasn't checking him out. I was checking into his background."

"I'm not exactly an expert, but I think he was a decent looking bloke. Tall, too."

" _And_ encumbered by an infant. Not to mention a wife. Besides, not my type."

"Didn't know you had a type."

"Of course I do," Sherlock sniffed. "You."

"Short, blond, former military?"

"No. You," his partner said firmly. John grinned, pushing himself up to rest on the generous pile of pillows.

"Good thing you're my type," he replied.

"Yes, that worked out rather well, didn't it?" Sherlock said, lips quirking. "There, it's done."

"And what did you find out about our favourite French author while I was asleep?"

"He's _your_ favourite French author – so maybe I'm the one who should be worried. _And_ he's tall, as you said, and dark haired. That reminds me of someone."

"He's not a consulting detective though."

"Is that a requirement?"

"He's got to be the only consulting detective in the world."

"Lucky for me then. Did you know his parents were in their forties when he was born?"

John took a second to switch mental tracks.

"Shocking," he replied. "That never happens. He's clearly the most interesting man in the world."

"Third," Sherlock corrected.

"What?" John asked. "Who's the second?"

"You are."

"Me? Who's the first?"

"I am. Obviously," Sherlock sniffed.

"You're a giant git," John said, rolling his eyes.

"You say that, but yet you're still here."

"Nowhere I'd rather be."

"London?"

"Fine," John conceded. "No one I'd rather be with."

"With whom I'd rather be."

John groaned, slouching down in the pillows.

"It's too early for proper grammar. What else did you find out?"

"The usual," Sherlock sighed. "Born and raised here, educated here, travels frequently but not excessively – that would largely be book promotions I suppose – married two years ago, wife is a publicist, he makes a decent living off his writing, six month old daughter, whom we met, both parents deceased now, father four years ago, mother almost two, no bad habits that would cause him any financial trouble, fairly active social life, even with the baby."

"It's almost as if he were a normal person," John said in mock surprise. "One whose name was in the right place at the right time for Mycroft to take advantage of it."

"You're still stuck on that ridiculous theory," Sherlock said with a scowl, putting his phone aside.

"More so now," John said. Sherlock huffed, slouching down to make himself comfortable, bundling the duvet under crossed arms. John leaned over, brushing his lips over his partner's.

"You need a shave," Sherlock murmured and John grinned, snaking a hand under the comforter to rest lightly on Sherlock's hip, thumb brushing over soft skin.

"I could do that now," he agreed. "Or… I could wait." He smiled again at the way Sherlock's pupils dilated slightly, the tip of his tongue darting once, impatiently, over his bottom lip.

"Best wait then," Sherlock said. "We're on holiday, after all. No need to rush."

* * *

The city spread out around, altogether different in tone and character from London, but the view wasn't an unpleasant one. Sherlock could admit (privately) the air seemed somewhat clearer here, although that was probably an illusion created by the predominance of white buildings rather than the dusty reds and browns of brick and sandstone he was used to.

But it wasn't Paris he was particularly interested in looking at. From here, all they could really see was the veneer, the bustling heart of the tourist centre hiding the _real_ city, the one in which people lived and worked and lied and schemed and stole.

Vaguely, he wondered what it would be like to understand it as well as he did London, to pick up on all its subtle hints and secrets. He'd learned his way around well enough when he'd been here during his exile – always taking care to know everything he needed to keep himself alive, hidden, and as safe as he could be, but discarding it as unnecessary once he'd returned home.

_London_ was his, and he'd slipped back into it like putting on an old, comfortable coat. Paris, like the other cities he'd slunk into, had its own allure, but never enough to keep him. They'd been stopping points, nothing more than necessary battles fought with only one goal in mind.

Home.

_John_.

Even the views of London weren't particularly interesting in and of themselves. Sherlock used them for information, observing a slowly shifting landscape, gleaning patterns from the way it changed and moulded itself to new circumstances.

It was John he watched – or wanted to watch. He couldn't always, of course – there were practicalities like John's work and cases and, occasionally, other people – but there were also moments like this, when Sherlock knew enough about social interaction to realize that staring at his partner would make John uncomfortable and draw attention to them.

So he positioned himself behind John, using contact to replace observation, standing at the right angle to see the profile curve of John's face out of the corner of his eye, and it didn't look odd when he glanced down, nodding at or replying to something the doctor was saying. The words scarcely mattered, although Sherlock listened anyway, because John _did_ matter.

The tone of John's voice, the lightness of his stance, the smile on his face – Sherlock drank them all in, almost but not quite able to ignore the stab of fear they caused.

It felt somehow selfish, being unable to simply let go and enjoy the moment. The sunshine, the warmth of John's body against his, the pleasure of being able to wrap one arm around John's waist, hands linked by interlaced fingers.

All of it seemed almost brittle, as if it could snap and shatter at any second. There was a wavering disconnect between himself and the ordinariness of the day. The tower was firm beneath him, tourists and languages flowed around him, traffic moved below in predictable, if somewhat backwards, patterns.

It was all there, solid, palpable, _real_.

It felt like he was in a play or a film, aware that it was all staged, that behind the normality lurked something else.

There was an unease always present in the back of his mind, a shadow wrapped lightly but unshakeably around his heart. He hated the sentimentality of it, how it refused to budge in the face of logic and rationalization.

Because it _was_ logical. The fear of losing John was grounded in reality. He had before.

Mary was still out there, and the Woman.

But the price – _his_ price – was so much higher now than it had ever been. He'd watched it go up, at first almost blissfully unaware, since the moment John had stepped – or limped – into his life. He'd traded all of it to keep John alive, and would do the same again in a heartbeat, without a second thought, if he had to.

Mary wouldn't come after John, not unless John got in her way. Sherlock was the more likely target, but he could trust her, perversely, only to do it if she had to. If he became problematic, the way Jim had, or Moran. It was simple mathematics to her. Subtract a nuisance, smooth things over.

But to the Woman… he'd taunted her with it once, without realizing the cruel symmetry of it. _It was all just a game_ , she'd said. A desperate lie, a buried plea not to expose her.

He had anyway, because it _was_ a game. Or had been. A risky one, where every step had been on thin ice, and he despised admitting to himself that he'd become entangled. He should have known better, so soon after Moriarty and the pool, and he felt his own disdain for becoming involved so much more keenly than Mycroft's disapproval.

He'd let himself do it, and it had been easy enough to justify with the work. A bright, shiny distraction that didn't really matter in the end, because it could be put aside for something he preferred, something he'd grown so used to he had stopped even questioning it.

Something– some _one_ he needed like breathing. Around whom everything revolved, like the earth apparently did around the sun.

She'd realized it, of course. So had Moriarty. Jim had toyed with Sherlock, dangling John's life in front of him, but not carelessly. Calculated. Deliberate. Threatening to take it away, so Sherlock would dance to Jim's tune.

She, on the other hand… She'd simply taken John away, to show Sherlock what would happen.

There were still times he couldn't breathe for the rage.

And she was still out there, like a shadow, like distant laughter.

He wanted her gone.

Mary he would fight, not for himself. For John, and for Harry, who was important to John. Because it needed to be done. It was what he did.

It was personal, but he would have done it regardless.

The Woman… he would have left her alone. Content in the knowledge that she was out there, somewhere, and she'd come and gone from his life, significant once and then not.

Until Wales.

Until she'd taken the only thing that had ever mattered, as if it hadn't mattered at all. Until she'd caged him in his own mind, terrified, suffocating. Until he'd felt himself crumbling, his centre turned into nothingness, sucking him in.

He was going to stop her.

He wasn't going to play games. He wasn't going to gloat. He wasn't going to make her pay.

He was only going to take away the power she held over him, and put it back where it belonged.

John was the only one with any right.

Which was why Sherlock still heard every word, why the bright, brittle anger didn't mask the sound of his partner's voice. Why he had agreed to stay here on this unexpected (and still somewhat annoying) holiday. Why he said yes to the appallingly domestic plan of a picnic and the even more dismaying idea of a visit to the Louvre with its teaming crowds after lunch.

Why he shut the door on her as they left the Eiffel Tower, because she had no rights and John deserved nothing less than all of him.


	7. Chapter 7

The knock on the door sparked a sharp, aggrieved sigh from Sherlock that made John grin. He swung himself from the bed where they'd been lounging after a long, hot shower together, and made sure to knot his plush bathrobe tightly at the waist. Sherlock huffed again, protesting the interruption, and drew the covers all the way up to his shoulders, becoming an affronted expression framed by the white linens.

John accepted the package with a thanks and a small tip, and made sure Sherlock could hear him bolting the door again after the concierge had gone.

"I have a surprise for you," John said, padding barefoot from the tiny hallway into the room. Sherlock glared at him, the expression nearly masking the flicker of interest.

"Two, actually," John amended. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but sat up, extending his arms, palms up, fingers beckoning. John rolled his eyes. "Greedy," he admonished.

Sherlock ignored him, beckoning again, and John slid the light, slim box into his partner's hand.

It hadn't been particularly surprising when, at the end of a long day that John had crammed with touristy activities, Sherlock had dragged him into a high end (and ridiculously expensive) men's clothing store on Rue Saint-Honoré. John hadn't commented or complained; after putting up remarkably well – for Sherlock – with the tourist sites, the doctor was inclined to let his partner dally in the shop, modeling overpriced clothing and preening.

In the end, Sherlock hadn't bought anything, but John had – while the detective had been locked in a rather spacious and well-appointed fitting room. He'd arranged to have it delivered to their hotel, but hadn't charged it to Mycroft's card.

This was a gift from him, _not_ from Sherlock's brother.

Sherlock opened the box, peeling aside the tissue paper, and lifting the light-weight silk carefully. He shook it out, grey eyes raking over it before widening slightly, and John grinned.

It was nowhere near the most risqué thing he'd ever bought his partner – even if buying clothing for another man still embarrassed him a bit – but he'd known the moment he set eyes on it that it would suit Sherlock perfectly.

"Go on," he said. "Try it on."

Sherlock stood, draping the chocolate brown silk over his shoulders in a fluid motion, knotting the dressing gown's belt loosely around his waist, making small, unnecessary adjustments. John's grin widened as he folded his arms, enjoying the view.

He'd been right in the size, and dead right that the colour would look amazing.

"Inspired by last night?" Sherlock murmured, lips twitching.

"Maybe," John replied, and caught the smirk and knowing glint in his partner's eyes. The colour _had_ reminded him of the night before, and he intended to remember that each time Sherlock wore it. And each time John took it off him.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, surprising John with the unexpected sentiment. Lips brushed his cheek before John had a chance to formulate a reply, and Sherlock's eyes were bright as he pulled away, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

Of course it wouldn't have escaped Sherlock's notice that John got something out of this gift, too.

"And you're softening me up for another day of ridiculous tourist activities," his partner commented.

"Am I?" John asked.

"You were on your phone earlier – given the length of time, the amount of selections you had to make, and the fact that you had to ask me for Mycroft's card number – again – indicates you had to book something." Sherlock heaved a sigh, in part for show, John knew, but it wasn't entirely feigned. "A tour, I assume. There are a number possibilities – each as tedious as the last, I'll have you know – and I suppose your choice of venue is meant to be the surprise."

John grinned, folding his arms, earning a dark scowl from his partner.

"Well, you're right about the schedule," he said. "Wrong about everything else."

"I'm never wrong," Sherlock said coolly.

"Just like you never guess?"

"Precisely."

"If you say so," John replied, snagging his phone and calling up the tickets he'd purchased. "But really, I think you'll like this one."

With another sigh, Sherlock took the phone, eyes skimming disinterestedly over the screen before he paused, going back and reading more carefully.

"I reckoned noon was enough time for us to have a bit of a lie in, then a nice, leisurely breakfast, and we'll be back in London before teatime," John said.

"Train tickets," Sherlock said, and John wondered if he was imagining the faint note of surprise in his partner's voice. "I thought you were enjoying yourself."

"I am. But we can't let London's criminal underworld get too comfortable. And we don't want to be out of practice, do we?"

"Assuming there are any interesting cases," Sherlock huffed, passing John's phone back.

"We could always stay…"

"No, I'm certain we'll find something," his partner replied quickly. John knew Sherlock's limited patience was reaching its breaking point, and he was starting to feel the itch to go back, too. He'd never lasted long on leave even when he'd been in the army, mind drifting back to the action after a few days, distracting him, turning a supposedly relaxing trip into chafing confinement.

John would bet his last pound that Sherlock knew that.

"What about the motorbike?" Sherlock asked.

"Someone from the hotel's going to take it back to the airport," he said.

"Courtesy of Mycroft, I hope?"

"Like everything else," John replied. " _Almost_ everything else," he amended when an alarmed expression flickered over his partner's features.

"Good," Sherlock huffed, mollified. "Our train schedule gives us approximately sixteen more hours. Tell me, Doctor Watson, what do you intend for us to do with all that time?"

"Y'know, I hadn't thought about that. But I'm a trained medical professional and you're a genius detective. Between the two of us, I think we could come up with a couple of good ideas."

"A couple?" Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow. "I've already got ten."

* * *

Sherlock would have gladly whiled away the whole morning in the king-sized bed, relying on room service for breakfast, but John had insisted on going out.

It should have annoyed him that it was so difficult to resist John's desires, but Sherlock couldn't muster the response. Being hauled out of bed was worth it to stroll down the street with the doctor, aware of the smug pride that emanated from his partner when glances were directed Sherlock's way. John nearly beamed when Sherlock threaded their arms together, but the detective wanted to divert the attention to his partner.

_Don't look at me,_ he wanted to say, the words hovering, unspoken, on his lips. _Look at_ him.

Really, these idiots had no idea what they were missing.

It was a relief to see John so light-hearted. Carefree. He had smiled more over the past two days than any other two-day period since Sherlock had returned to London.

Perhaps they could take more short trips in the future.

The idea wasn't as unappealing as it once might have been.

London would always be there, after all. Waiting. In need of his services.

The city – _his_ city – rushed back toward them as France fell away at nearly two hundred miles per hour. The sense of _home_ he felt as they were engulfed first by the suburbs, then by London itself, was somewhat clouded by the worry that John wouldn't be as enthusiastic. That he would have preferred to remain on their impromptu holiday.

A quick glance dispelled any apprehension; John was grinning as the conductor announced their arrival into King's Cross, and they were jostled off the train in the press of other travellers, winding their way back up into bright, English air.

The cab got them home as quickly as the tube would have, but Sherlock needed to see the buildings and the streets slide by, gauge any change in their character, pick up any hints of what was going on below.

Two days could make difference.

Baker Street was right as they left it, and the fact that a careful eye had been kept on it was announced blatantly by the vase of flowers left on the coffee table. The splash of vibrant colour seemed out of place – a feminine touch, albeit not a stranger's one – but John was pleased.

One of the flowers had been plucked from the bouquet and placed in a smaller vase on the mantle, with a simple note that read _Welcome Home_. The "w" and the "h" were done with a calligraphic flourish in neat, female handwriting. It remained a mystery, even to Sherlock, how Amanda Hassard managed to retain this skill as a police officer. By rights, her handwriting should have been nearly indecipherable.

Leaving John to unpack was a dubious prospect – for a military doctor, his lack of order was alarming, and socks were always replaced incorrectly, and often intermingled. Sherlock followed behind John at each step, correcting the inaccuracies, peering over the doctor's shoulder to give him proper instructions.

"If you don't bloody stop, I'm going to handcuff you to something," John growled.

"Not much incentive for me to stop," Sherlock pointed out. "Besides, you're doing it wrong."

"You finish then," John sighed. "I'll go round to the shops. Won't be long. Try not to rearrange everything while I'm out."

" _You're_ the one who puts things in the wrong place," Sherlock sniffed, but John only grinned, kissed him, and clattered down the stairs.

Without needing to constantly correct someone else's mistakes, it was a matter of a few minutes before he was done, left only with two copies of Alexandre Georges' new book, and wondering where he might hide them so as never be subjected to them. In the end, Sherlock relented, shoving his copy haphazardly on an upper shelf but leaving John's on the coffee table.

The doctor did have a very good memory. For some things.

There were no cases of any interest or worth, but an Australian connection had sent an intriguing proposal for an experiment. It had potential, although he'd have to make a number of small adjustments to make it passably interesting.

It would do until Lestrade lost his patience for Sherlock's repeated texts and actually gave him something _useful_ to do.

He shrugged the dark brown dressing gown over his shoulders, relishing the lightness of the silk. He'd take care not to damage it, and perhaps later, he'd wear it with nothing underneath.

Sherlock took himself downstairs, entrenching himself in the ground floor flat, where he had more room for his experiments, and could create caustic fumes without (too much) complaint. John had repeatedly mentioned the need to get a proper fume hood, although Sherlock hardly saw the point.

He could always go to Bart's if he needed that.

Much more pleasant _not_ to be restricted by tedious safety regulations in his own home.

The experimental set up needed more tweaking than normal, but he could begin to see the promise of it. Sherlock made notes as he went, quick, almost indecipherable code, with added comments about the viability of the process. It could be worth putting on his blog, and he certainly wanted more accuracy than John managed.

A pause so he could think made him aware of the settled silence in the house – the sounds of the street outside filtered in through the closed windows, but there was nothing else beyond that pattern of his own breathing and the faint tick of the clock on the mantle. Sherlock's eyes darted to it, trying to work out how long it had been since he'd come down here, how long since John had left.

He scoured his memory, combing it for the sound of the front door opening and closing, of John's voice, of his tread on the stairs and on the floorboards above.

He could recall all of them easily – or perhaps fabricate them at will – but they hadn't happened.

Not today. Not since John had gone out.

Of course, Sherlock had neglected to bring his phone down, and there could be any number of messages waiting for him – John had been held up in a queue at the shops, or had run into some friend, or been waylaid by a list of other errands.

He hurried upstairs, tearing apart the desk and the kitchen table before locating his phone amidst the sofa cushions. The screen was treacherously blank of text messages; Sherlock rang John's number, throat constricting as each quiet buzz went unanswered until the voicemail picked up. He hung up and dialled again, listening with a growing numbness to his partner's cheery voice on the voicemail greeting.

_Where are you? – SH_

Sherlock stared at the screen, willing it to jump to life with a reply, calculating the time it would take for Lestrade or Amanda to get here, what would be needed to hack into the area's CCTV system.

_John where are you? – SH_

A faint rattling made him look up, but it was the wind against one of the open windows, stirring the drapes and some of the scattered papers on the desk. Sherlock held himself still, straining his hearing in a desperate attempt to catch the sound of a key in the lock.

The flower on the mantle caught his eye as the petals moved slightly in the remnant breeze. The card next to it seemed too cheery for the sudden uncertainty – they'd come home, but John had gone out again and hadn't come back.

It could be mundane. It could be nothing. A delay. A detour.

It could be Wales again.

It could be even worse.

_Welcome Home_.

Sherlock's grip tightened on the phone, eyes scanning the greeting, the way the first two letters jumped out, highlighting the message. He glanced down at his phone screen again, seeing the "h" almost mirrored there.

Realization cut through him like a knife; without even wanting it, he was on his feet, plucking the card from the mantle, flipping it over between his thumb and forefinger to read the rest of the message on the back.

_Let's have dinner._


	8. Chapter 8

_London would burn._

He would turn the entire city upside down, call in every favour he'd ever been owed. Leave no stone unturned, no abandoned building untouched.

There would be nowhere to hide. Not now. Not this time.

It didn't matter where she went, how far or fast she ran.

He would hunt her down.

_He would find John._

And if anything had happened to John, she would pay.

More than she'd ever thought possible.

There was no time to think, no time to decide between calling Lestrade or Mycroft first because the choice was obvious – his brother had more resources but Lestrade had been there, in Wales. He _understood_. He _knew_. The Met _would_ move on his command, and move faster than the weight of the British government. The necessary lag time his brother would face would be countered by Lestrade's instantaneous response.

The sound of the front door opening was like a gun shot, like adrenaline straight to the heart, half of Sherlock's mind working out how quickly he could get to his gun and if it was properly loaded in the split second before he registered – impossibly – John's tread on the floorboards below, the familiar sounds of a greeting being called out.

Sherlock was down the stairs before John had even managed to take a single step up, the shock of being forced against the wall making the doctor drop the shopping bags he'd had in each hand.

"Sherlock, what–" Unnecessary words were cut off, lips crushed together bruisingly, John opening his mouth at Sherlock's insistence, the reaction more shock and habit than anything.

Sherlock fisted a hand into short blond hair, tilting the doctor's head back as far as it would go. He pressed his weight against John, trapping his partner between his body and the unyielding wall, refusing any space or mercy.

John raised a hand, trying to push back; Sherlock snagged it, pinning it against the wall, his fingers curled tight into John's wrist, nails digging into skin. John made a noise into the kiss, pain underlain by sharp pleasure, and Sherlock took advantage of it, pressing a thigh between John's legs, feeling a shudder of breath between them.

But John managed to pull away, gasping for air.

"Stop, Sherlock," he said, the words making Sherlock growl. "For Christ's sake! Sherlock! _Stop now._ "

He did, suddenly, the command bypassing his brain, rooting itself into his nerves and muscles. They stayed locked, a frozen tableau, both of them breathing hard, John's blue eyes fastened on his, sharp and bright.

"Take a deep breath," John said. "Slowly."

" _She was here_ ," Sherlock hissed. John's eyes widened, incomprehension more than shock, before narrowing as he shook his head.

"Who?"

" _Her_ ," Sherlock spat, shoving the card into John's hand, finally able to force himself back, to give John a bit of room to move. His mind screamed in response, warning against letting John go, against even the smallest amount of space between them.

With a deep, harsh breath through gritted teeth, Sherlock wrestled himself back under control.

The shock on John's face almost made him lose that tenuous restraint.

"How–" the doctor started.

"You weren't answering your phone," Sherlock interjected, voice dipping to low, dangerous. "You were gone too long."

John stared at him too long a moment, then gave a sharp shake of his head.

"I had to go to a few more places than usual. It took longer than I thought. And my battery died."

Sherlock exhaled sharply, forcing down the accusations that sprung to his lips. John should have kept his phone charged. Should have called. Shouldn't have taken so long.

Should have known better.

John's eyes darkened, clearly reading the unspoken words in Sherlock's expression, but pursed his lips, refusing to comment.

"We need to call Greg," he said instead. "And Mycroft. Did you check the flat for bugs?"

He hadn't had time, of course – but it should have been the first thing he'd done when he got home. He'd failed to ensure their safety. John's safety. He'd been lulled by the trip, and his sock index had seemed so important.

 _Stupid!_ he snarled at himself, feeling his lip curl.

"No," he managed.

John's simple act of picking up the shopping bags he'd dropped made Sherlock repress a snarl, fingers curling into fists; it was too bland an action right now, too inane. Not important. He needed to get John upstairs, where it was safe – but it wasn't safe. _She'd_ been in there, the same way Moriarty had, insinuating herself into their space.

She'd done it before. He'd wanted it then, and not wanted it at the same time. It had been a dangerous dance, the veiled menace making his mind buzz the way cocaine had so many times before, the thrill of it – the risk, the allure – singing in his veins.

Then she'd taken John.

And now every shadow held a threat, every movement put him on edge.

She'd come back in, let him know there was nothing he could do.

He couldn't protect John. Not by leaving. Not by staying. John was at risk _because of him_ and there was no way around it or out of it, there was no controlling John's every movement and even if there were, he couldn't stop the rest of it, the way John was targeted, and if he took himself away again it wouldn't matter because _she'd_ always know – anyone would know – that all it would take to bring him back would be a threat to John.

John was the most precious thing in the world, and Sherlock had made John's life a commodity, something to be tossed aside at will, without warning or care, and everyone who wanted to get to Sherlock could go through John, could strap a bomb to him or drug him and abandon him or simply come into their home and steal him away, leaving nothing more than a note in his place.

It mattered that John was everything, contained in one compact, perfect package, because _everything_ could be taken away so easily, ripped from him, ripped apart.

"Sherlock!"

It was John's voice, distorted, fuzzy, distant, but two hot, tight points of contact on Sherlock's arms resolved themselves into John's hands, fingers digging – hard – into Sherlock's skin.

"Take a deep breath." The command was ridiculous, he had no time for that, he needed to get John upstairs, close them in, turn the flat upside down, call Lestrade, call Mycroft, call in every favour–

"Deep breath!" John snapped, captain's tone rooting itself in Sherlock's body again. "Hold it! Now exhale, slowly. Slowly, Sherlock. Again. Look at me. _Look_ at me. What colour are my eyes?"

"Blue." Stupid question, but it made him look, really look, drinking in all the details he knew by heart, tracing lines of muscle and bone, across hardened features, taut lips, tightened jaw.

"Good," John said, and something in the tone made Sherlock long for more approval, resist the desire to spiral downward again. "You're okay, Sherlock. I'm okay. I'm right here. Nothing happened."

"It could have–"

"It didn't. Don't. _Don't_ , Sherlock. Good." His voice softened on the last word, fingers easing up somewhat. "I need you to sit."

His body obeyed against his will, the pressure of John's hand on the back of his head pushing it down, between his knees, where the disjointed feeling began to recede more quickly.

"I'm going to get you some water."

"Lestrade–"

"He's on his way."

They were upstairs – the realization registered for the first time. He was in his chair, not sat on a step. Sherlock scoured his memory, but there was nothing between being downstairs, in the hall, and being up here. No recollection of John on the phone, only that black, suffocating certainty that he'd lost control. That he'd never had it in the first place.

"Here. Slowly." John helped him with the glass; Sherlock was dimly aware his hands were shaking. The water felt strange on his tongue, as if he'd never tasted it before.

Panic attack. Some small part of him was grateful that John hadn't said the words.

The rap on the flat door was echoed by the rattle of glass as it hit the rug, and Sherlock was up before he'd registered the movement, putting himself between John and the door. Belated recognition set in, barely pushing past the adrenaline haze.

"We have a problem," his brother said without preamble, striding in. No needling, no verbal dance. Two other men with him, silent suits in the background, taking up positions on either side of the door.

Sherlock's body saw the threat, his mind shouted the rational explanation at him.

Protection, not entrapment.

Every nerve screamed to get John out, to get him away, let no one else near him.

Mycroft paused, gaze diverted to something on the coffee table. The novel Alexandre Georges had given John, the one Sherlock had put there earlier.

"What is this?" Mycroft demanded, subjecting to the book's cover to a piercing glare. The reaction made no sense. Incongruous. It was just a book.

"A book," John said, as though stating the obvious. Which he was. "Alexandre gave it to me. It's his latest."

Mycroft's gaze slid to John; Sherlock curled his hands into fists, trying to quash the urge to strike, to keep John safe, because there was no threat here despite every sense insisting there was, that something was wrong, that John was in danger.  

"This," Mycroft said, picking up the book, handing it, back cover up, to John. "Doctor Watson, do you recognize these symbols?"

John took it, reaching past Sherlock to do so, the warmth from his arm searing against Sherlock's skin. He wanted to reach out, to envelop John somehow, to keep the doctor for himself, away from anyone else.

He breathed in slowly, unable to move, to give John any space, but the doctor shifted closer to him, letting Sherlock see the cover as well. A series of four abstract blue symbols, painted in no apparent pattern on a non-descript wall.

"They look familiar…" John murmured.

"They should," Mycroft replied. "You photographed them in the tunnels in March." His eyes shifted to Sherlock, cool, enquiring. "You didn't make the connection?"

"I didn't look," Sherlock snapped.

But he should have.

Someone had used Georges to draw them to France. The man's life was mostly unremarkable, but there _had_ to be something there. Some reason he'd been chosen. Something he knew, or ought to know.

"They are," John agreed. "Well, he said he reads the blog, so maybe he got the inspiration there."

"That book is due to be published next month," Mycroft replied. "You took those photographs in March."

"And?" John said.

"The timing doesn't work," Sherlock interjected. "This would already have been set, long before then."

"What does that mean?" John asked. "He had something to do with that case? How? He said he wished had a case for you, but that he didn't. Plus he lives in France! What does he care about a murdered English businessman?"

"Perhaps we should find out," Sherlock said, eyes locked with his brother's, aware that John's gaze was alternating between them, confused, trying to keep up.

"That's going to prove difficult," Mycroft said, the edge in his voice cold, cautionary. "He's missing."


End file.
